


As Life You Shall Remain

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: After the death of her father, Frea wonders if the cycle is broken, if Herma-Mora has won.
Kudos: 4





	As Life You Shall Remain

There is no end, there is no beginning, there is only the river.

Just as the Harstrad tumbles from the mountains, and the Iggnir – in times long past – from shore to distant shore, so our river finds boldly its course; so their waters are ever replaced, and ever fall as snow upon the source, so our river repeats, and is undying. That is life, and death, in one: there is no end, there is no beginning. And so all is one, and we must know that we are with the land and all which is a part. _To dust you shall return_ , say the newcomers. _As life you shall remain_ , say we, more hopeful.

And that proliferation of life is all about us, returning, renewing, reminding.

I shall not forget when darkness fell; when Herma-Mora – whose power is in words! – brought silence, when I thought all was lost, gone, that we and the All-Maker had at last failed; that this terror had taken from us what we valued, what was our centre and our everything. And had taken from me what I loved the most dearly in the world...

No: to doubt would be to falter and fall. Now I do not doubt; and it is difficult to remember what were my thoughts, directly afterwards. Difficult: for precision, for sense is lost in a mire darker than Apocrypha itself, for when silence fell it was as if the world had fallen, for in my heart there was no love of our Maker, no hope for His return, only hatred, bitter hatred, loss unfathomable. And I should have known that there was no end, no failing, no death: but something was gone, but I yet felt the many repulsive eyes of Herma-Mora upon us, upon him; the constant, paranoid glare of an incoming tyrant.

Tyranny, then: tyranny, and suspension.

Even the Iggnir failed, in times long past. It was the great eruption in the southern lands which dammed its course, even from so far away; the old tales sing of it, wide waters from shore to distant shore, uncut, indomitable; the old tales sing of it, and our ancestors’ crossings, whether by ice, or wading through cold currents; those who went south, saw it pour into the bay, to the sea, where it would continue its unfailing journey. And then came the mountain and the ash, and nothing remains save a trickle, desperate, dusty, sputtering.

My river, my dear beloved All-Maker, had failed as the Iggnir, failed to the most monstrous creature, and I was lost.

And in those days, when I wondered what might be made of this world which remained – which did not flow, which did not renew and return – I walked southwards, sometimes, and saw this last despairing remnant of the Iggnir. One might cross it in a jump; this river was not worthy of the songs of old, just as this world had failed our most fervent prayers.

How long I spent beside the river, I do not know: but when I at last returned from thoughts darker than Herma-Mora’s cloak, I saw, come to drink from the stream, a snow-goose. So startled was I by living creation, that I did not move; watched it, desperately; saw it bend its neck to drink, delight in the cool water upon its beak, perceive me in the dust.

I had never seen a more compassionate expression, nor a gentler, nor a more understanding – not upon a bird or an animal, not even upon a person. Not upon a person: save for one. And this comprehending goose leant me his smile, and his calmness, and his deep abiding love; and when I was drunk on this kindness, on this memory, he looked once more at the Iggnir, and upon me, and flew away, quite untethered. And I was bathed in warmth, a warmth I had not believed should ever return; which I had thought was lost; which had been taken by Herma-Mora, more wicked than the howling storm-winds – storm-winds, which had dropped, and gone into nothing, and now I saw that, and now I saw him.

 _And as life you shall remain,_ say I: more hopeful.


End file.
